A Christmas Melody
by PetiteBelle
Summary: It was then the crack sounded. A sharp, piercing crack which rang loudly through the night and his ears.... A stifled moan escaped his lips before he slumped off the side onto the pavement in an ally. His being ached.... Darkness ensued.
1. Prologue

Sweat trickled along his brow, creeping down his neck and sticking the folds of his mask against his skin. His weapons felt hot in his iron grip; fingers cramped from holding so tightly for so long. How long had this been continuing on? It felt like an eternity. But he was well aware that a mere 30 minutes might seem like hours to an adrenalin pumped mind.

Stamina was not his current issue. It was rather the frozen winter night air setting his lungs and nostrils on fire. The snow beneath them had compacted to ice, creating new and unique footing challenges (not always to his disadvantage). His coat had been shed regretfully at the start of the matter, to ensure freer movement, and he hadn't the time to remember precisely where it lay now.

Lunge, jump, swerve, thrust –another enemy down. Each move was tactical, even those decided and executed in the blink of an eye. Every action counted, all contributing collaboratively like steps in a dance. Only in this dance, just one misstep could cost dearly.

Too many. Many more than originally anticipated. Like stumbling on a little cockroach lair. He hated cockroaches. Never quite recovered from when one of his brothers had slipped one into his training pads as a kid. (Then again, neither had his brother.)

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice told him he ought to be a bit concerned for the outcome of his current situation. But from past encounters and frequent triumphs enabled him to brush the thought aside. He felt insured that skill and history would prove faithful (even if it also proved in need of an ice pack later).

Time crept by, seemingly slower than life. While at times it seemed monotonous, it was beginning to show progress. A well-placed kick here, head butt there, swift elbow elsewhere. He felt certain a good number of his current companions would be requiring more than an ice pack the following morning. Almost like squishing bugs.

One down here, two taken care of over there, some retreating with their wounds. As things began to thin out, he almost pitied the few stragglers who idealistically hoped determination could win against trained skill. Almost. He grinned malevolently as things turned in his favor.

The preverbal finish line in sight, he delivered another innate stroke of his weapon and snapped a nearby laundry line. It fell, dropping one of its charges (a rather large, checkered night gown rimmed with a hideous lace) directly onto the head of an opponent. The poor schmuck didn't even see the final kick coming.

Gazing around, none stood but him. He shrugged. Not such a tough job to finish after all. Quite refreshing, in retrospect.

Casually, he cast a glance into a sheet of ice on the cement floor the rooftop where he found himself. He tensed, seeing into the reflection. Behind him and just above; hidden in the shadows. Realizing its discovery, the figure cast stealth aside and lunged from concealment. With mere moments to avoid this new opponent, he fell backwards, bending at the knees and launched himself into a double back handspring.

The timing was better than clockwork. His feet collided with the figures jaw in the first rotation. Quite ungracefully, the lunging man hurtled backward from the blow, crashing loudly and unconsciously to the ground.

Finishing the second rotation, he landed onto the building ledge with a thump and put away his sai. A smile tugged up at the corners of his mouth as he prepared to admire his solo handiwork. It was then the crack sounded.

A sharp, piercing, ugly crack. One that rang out loudly in the night and his ears. Gravity shifted rapidly, forcing his heart up from its rightful place in his chest to his throat. The ledge, the frozen stone ledge coated in layers of ice, snapped under his weight. Like a toothpick.

Wind rushed past his head at a whistling speed. Arms flailing, he reached frantically about for anything to cling. He felt his shell slam onto (and off) a metal railing, and his hand shot out to grasp it. His fingers locked around it for a fraction of an instant before his body weight then wrenched them off again. He collided with several more objects attached to the building before crashing onto a dumpster with resounding force.

A stifled moan escaped his lips before he tipped off the side and onto the pavement in an ally. Everything hurt. Blood pounded through his veins at an alarming rate. He halfheartedly lifted his head a inch and thunder roared through his skull. Dropping it down again, he heard himself whimper.

The ground was like ice. Chilling wind rushed over him, but he hadn't the control or coordination to shield himself from it. Darkness ensued. . .

First chapter up (short as it may be). Even that's surprising, considering the company I've kept today (your brain cells would hurt too if you had to spend time around the cackling numbskull I call neighbors). Little miracles. . .

Anyhoo, first fanfic here, so have fun with it (and try not to barbecue 'er just yet). Remember my darlings, Flamers is a greasy burger joint, not a profession you want to occupy. (And after all, we are talking about giant talking turtles, how fastidious must we be?) So review, if you please.


	2. Chapter 1

**The Previous evening.**

Raphael sighed. It wasn't a tiresome sigh, or even a self pitying one. No, it was an aggravated sigh.

The four brothers currently found themselves topside the Big Apple, running through different "growth" exercises. Supposedly to help develop "team work" or spirit, or whatever it was they called it. . . He tried to imagine Leo with pom poms in hand, leading cheers in a gymnasium. Some how, it seemed to fit.

Currently, all their little pep rally time consisted of was Leonardo trying to regain control over a rather uncooperative Michelangelo. Who would begin the drills with every appearance of honest participation, only to wait for the moment to present itself and spring upon an unsuspecting team mate yelling "teenagemutantsmurfattack!" A volley of snow balls would follow.

The phrase had been adopted and adapted from a holiday television special of the little blue men the previous evening. Leonardo had been dubbed the "kahoona TMNS" due to his choice in face mask color. This, naturally resulted in the largest number of snowball ambushes targeting him. Leonardo however, was not thrilled.

After yet another TMNS stealth assault, Leo was on his last fuse.

"Michelangelo! This is a tactical training exercise, not a tea time for you to fool around!" The other brothers rolled their eyes. "Where do you think you would be if you disregarded a battle situation like you are now?" Impressive. You had to give some kind of kudos to a guy who could maintain a menacing air with a snow goatee and a rather large clump of snow on his forehead that resembled grapefruit. Of course, assuming it was the poor lighting that made it appear that color. . .

Michelangelo was not moved.

"Aw, chill out Leo, it's not like having a little fun'll kill you." Stretch him possibly to the edge of mental and physical capabilities? Perhaps. Permanently damage? Undetermined. The next image to flash into Raphael's mind was of some sort of vegetable Leo, katana in hand walking in circles from the meltdown.

"Yeah Leo," commented Donatello dropping to their ground level. "Lighten up. Where's your sense of holiday spirit?"

Raphael stifled a gag. "Christmas spirit" this, and "holiday cheer" that, the monotony was unending. He didn't see why anyone would make such a big deal about it other than to get out of trouble. Leonardo would probably lay into them about "responsibility" or "a ninja's duty" or something just as repetitious. . .which for now was fine by him. A few more minutes spent lecturing someone else were minutes free for him.

"I don't suppose that I should need to remind you that as Ninja, we hold responsibility above those in lesser position that ourselves," Yep. Raphael had been right about on target with that last guess. "And yet in consideration of our current circumstances, the only thing I have to say would be. . .attack!" Hurling a concealed snow ball, he nailed Michelangelo directly in the face. Hurriedly, Leonardo dove behind a sizable mound of the icy white powder and began compacting more ammunition.

Stunned, the other three turtles remained motionless, gaping for a moment. Then quick as a flash, Michelangelo and Donatello raced for cover as well, broad grins plastered across their faces. The chaos that which followed was watched incomprehensibly by a fixed Raphael. He couldn't recall when he had last (if ever, really) seen Leonardo behave so. . .normally. Which was practically disturbing in itself.

Momentarily his pondering was disturbed by a snowball which smashed into his shoulder. "'Ay, watch it," he said in his perplexed state. All eyes focused on him.

"Undefended smurf!" Cried Michelangelo. A fleet of cold, sloshy missiles were launched, leaving Raphael to duck, crouch and bob in various means to avoid death by frost bite. "'Ay, would ya' - ow! - just - oof! - knock it - ouch! - would you just _stop _already!?" He shouted.

The assault was momentarily halted. "What's your problem?" inquired Donatello. "Yeah, what gives?" a whiny Michelangelo interjected. "We were just having some fun, Raph," commented Leonardo, rising from his make shift barricade.

"Yeah, well maybe I've had enough "fun" for one day, eh?" The unhappy turtle shrugged snow powder from his shoulders. "I'm goin' home. . ."

"Okay Raph," Leonardo said calmly. "Suit yourself," he watched while his brother trudged away.

Leonardo sighed as he watched the retreating figure disappear into the night. He was discerning whether or not to head home for the night as well when he heard a distinct crunching of snow behind him. Whirling around, he drew one katana face level in a breaths second, slicing the hurtled snowball harmlessly in two. He narrowed his eyes challengingly. The two remaining turtles each pointed to the other.

-----------

As Raphael made his way across roof tops, he heard the sounds of his brothers continued snow battle in the distance. "Holiday spirit, my shell. . ." he grumbled to himself. Spitefully, he kicked a mound of snow. All of this Christmas mumbo-jumbo irritated him. It was everywhere, surrounding, trapping him in an inescapable booby trap that occurred once a year. An infestation of lights, whiny kids in toy stores and fat guys in cheesy beards and bad suits.

It was unavoidable in a city this size. Lights on every street corner, bells jingling in door ways, and those terribly tacky blowup yard figures. The ones which towered over you, bending with every move of the wind, almost like waving to taunt you of their very existence. One which so temptingly could be ended with one sharp poke. . .

Returning to the lair wasn't a respite either. Entering through the doors, the stereo was set to one of those "all Christmas all the time" stations, blaring the final verse of "grandma got run over by a reindeer". Raphael exhaled loudly. Carelessly his coat was tossed onto its hanger with precision, and forgotten as he continued onward.

Decorations had been accumulating steadily since the beginning of the month until he had awoken one day with the distinct impression a Christmas factory had exploded. Wreaths hung from arch ways, tinsel of varying colors, shapes and sizes encircled railing, laid across shelves, mantles or draped across door ways. An old nativity scene which had been acquired at April's late antique shop was on display in a prominent aria.

Everywhere ones eye turned, most every decoration imaginable could be found. (Although it was still a mystery to him where a large portion of the effects had come from.) It even appeared Donatello had graciously decided to contribute his skills by finding, fixing and setting up mechanical displays of varying sizes, characters, actions and sounds.

Raphael's least favorite of which happened to be a life sizes Nelton Nutcracker, whose motion activated voice would boom one of several phrases when you walked past. (Some of which included "onward my loyal soldiers", "for Clara" and "avast ye mouse king wretch".) It wasn't a large wonder why he hadn't lasted in store windows long.

Nelton, however, had been required to be moved to a location of less traffic flow, along with restricted voice box hours. This, was due to the untimely occurrence of Splinted walking by him to the kitchen for a late night drink, and Nelton booming through the pitch black, silent lair "avast ye mouse king wretch!" Needless to say, this had not ended well. It was also the second time Donatello had to repair the enormous nut cracker.

Raphael continued on as the radio began an old rendition of "jingle bell rock" . He passed by Splinter's room, only to pause and backtrack his steps. Momentarily he hesitated before drawing back the door which was slightly ajar.

"Uh. . . Sensei. . .?" came the inquiry. Master Splinter was seated cross legged in a position of rumination in center room. His much smaller figure could be seen bobbing up and down, this way and that to the current song.

"Yes, Raphael?" The reply came without a break in pace. It seemed as if he was rather enjoying himself.

"What. . .eh, what are ya' doin'?" Warily the question was presented. "Meditation, my son." He didn't seem to feel anything was out of the ordinary. "Yeah. . .but," Raphael made a gesture. "ta' this?" A rather large implication was placed on the tune selection.

Splinter chuckled good naturedly. "Yes, is it good music, is it not?" The bobbing was continued merrily.

"Uh. . .sure. . ." Raphael turned, and steadily walked on his way, shaking his head as he went. The infestation was complete. Signal NASA, the ship had crashed. No survivors. He was completely on his own.

The bed creaked anciently under his weight as he plopped onto it with carelessness. Outside his room, he heard his brothers returning, laughing and shivering loudly. Determinedly, a pillow was pressed around his head in an attempt to drown out the sounds of their tomfoolery as a frustrated groan was exhaled from under it.

Weariness was rampant throughout his frame, bordering on the point of exhaustion. So tired. . . Always so tired. Sluggishly tugging off his belt, weapons and padding's, they were let drop on the floor beside him with slipshoddiness.

It was just before ten o'clock, although the poor lighting of the season allowed them to roam the city earlier and earlier. Despite the hour being younger than their usual sleeping time, Raphael lay covered in a blanket of darkness in his bedroom. Shutting heavy eyelids, he let his body slump into the mattress. Breathing slowed to a rhythmic pace, chest rising and falling along with it.

Three hours and three quarters passed. Raphael slumbered on. . .oblivious to the season and it's distractions. This was the one haven the holiday let alone, leaving him to this one respite and his own devices. Whatever there enlied.

Another quarter or so passed undisturbed, continuing as it had. His fingers twinged. Once. Twice. Until the muscles in his right are followed suit, twitching and flexing to some unknown cause.

The steady breathing pattern became slightly disturbed, air being taken in at a bit more scattered pace. Contrary to its previous disposition, his body stiffened, each individual muscle more strained. His chest rose and fell to a new pace, a more rapid one.

Uneasily, his head shifted from one side of the pillow to the other. Then back and forth again. Finally back to where it started. Through the varied motions, an incoherent mumble passed from his lips, indiscernible to the stone walls around him.

At his sides, fists grasped and released sheets, crumpling them repeatedly. The blankets upon him became hot. Too hot. As if an all consuming furnace fueled them from within. Whimpers and stifled cries escaped periodically, slowly increasing in frequency. Convulsively, his sharp twists continued. Occasionally striking out, a hint of distress surfacing here and there where his bed linens restricted a kick or a jab.

Sweat trickled from his pores, sticking sheet to skin gallingly. Muffled words and half finished phrases were cast out now and again, with no seeming pattern or purpose. The entire performance being observed by the silent stone walls, uncaring and indifferent to its outcome.

Twist, kick, mumble, squirm. A different sequence for a different scene behind closed eyelids. His walls couldn't quite determine what might be passing through the sleepers mind. One never really could. Each adventure on a dreamers canvas was never altogether identical to the last, or any before it. New brush strokes, new patterns, new happenings. All the observer could do was watch and presume.

Finally, so encased in bedding and covering, movement was restricted entirely. Panic bubbled over like a pot unwatched. Raphael shot forward as if he were discharged bullet, his cry of alarm echoing off the thickset walls.

Frantically a struggle ensued, a means, any means being sought which could wrench or wriggle a way out from the viscid bonds. A resounding thump sounded as he and his ardent captor tumbled off the bed onto the contrastingly cold floor. The battle continued. At last, with enormous effort, successfully the bindings were kicked away and thrown across the room.

Raphael gasped. A drum thundered in his mind, over and over. . .so voluminous it drown all else out. His eyes darted in every direction where any unwelcome threat could be perceived, vision unadjusted to the darkened room. Loud, too loud. . .the pounding refused to cease its rhythmic pace. Trembling in every corner of his body, he army crawled to the nearest corner, which was next to a bed post.

Beside the large piece of furniture and hidden from view he concealed himself. Clutching the sides of his head he whimpered timidly, willing the noise to go away. It was as though the drumming escalated all through and amid him, hammering hardest in his chest. Gropingly he placed a hand there. His heart. It was only a heart. . .

Air came in hiccuped gasps. Hearing returned, and he was in his bedroom. He looked across the room warily to identify his attacker. It was bed sheets. Nothing more. . . He was alone. Nothing from which to be protected. Or at least nothing which could be wrestled or pounded into oblivion.

Strained shoulders shook with soft sobs, faced masked deeply within crossed arms. All of this, his walls graciously veiled from prying eyes or curious spectators within their vastness. The clock read 2:39am.

* * *

Whew. That took longer than expected. Terribly sorry for the delay, my darlings, I had planned on more regular updates, but simply hadn't the time in all of the holiday madness. All of that being said and done, however, I hope to be able to establish better update timing.

I was glad to supply a longer chapter, which additionally grounded us a little more into the story. Also to give us a little more window view into why our Christmas stingy turtle isn't so eggnogingly-happy (yes, I just made that word up off the top of my head). What is it he dreams about behind closed eyes? I'll never tell... (Okay, well, eventually I'll have to if I'm going to supply plot, but not any time soon, you trigger happy readers!) Questions, comments cries of outrage? Review.


	3. Chapter 2

Raphael yawned. The stereo was blaring the sounds of "Santa Clause is coming to town". The little kid singing it made a point to scream the word "Santa" each time opportunity presented itself. As if ruining his breakfast wasn't enough, it was as though he needed to be told he was being spied on by an old fat guy in desperate need of a razor and more celery. The kid yelled "Santa" again, and Raphael sighed. Something he seemed to be developing a talent for lately.

"Saaanta Clause is coming to town!" Raphael winced.

"'Ay, Mikey-"

"_Saaanta_ Clause is coming to town!"

"Mikey, would ya' just-"

"Saaaaant-ah Clause is _com-ing_, to to...wn!"

"Mikey!" Raphael shouted over the commotion. "Would ya' knock it off already, it's too early!"

"Well bahumbug to you too, bro." Michelangelo wore one of those red Santa hats with the fuzzy little white balls on the end. Raphael pointedly decided those hats stirred up murderous impulses. Swinging gingerly around to the table chair nearest him, Michelangelo sat down. In turn, two absent brothers sauntered over, stomachs gurgling as they came.

"So what's your big hairy deal this morning," the hat wearing Mikey asked the rather crusty Raphael. "Sound pollution," came the curt reply. Michelangelo harrumphed. "What, so I guess now you just don't like good old Christmas tunes?"

"Show me some good ones, and I'll let you know." Raphael responded without looking up from his bowl. This provoked a sour look from his younger sibling.

"Okay," Michelangelo conceded. "The hippopotamus song I can understand," taking a sloppy bite from an apple, he continued. "Rudolph and Frosty I might even be able to empathize," he downed the mouthful noisily. "But honestly, you gotta like most rest of them."

Raphael ate another spoonful. Slowly crunching, not seeming as if in any hurry to answer. He swallowed. "Nope."

Rolling his eyes, Donatello joined the conversation. "Oh, get over yourself. . .everyone likes Christmas music to some degree, and you've always enjoyed it too."

"Not anymore, I don't."

"_Raaph_. . ." whined Mikey. "Why wouldn't you like them now?"

"I just don't."

"But _why_ wouldn't you like them?"

"I. Just. Don't." The responce held a bit more irritability.

"Yeah, but-"

"Would you lay _off _already?" Raphael's fists bounced the table.

There was silence momentarily. "Okay Raph, _chill_," Donatello persuaded. "Mike's just being. . .well, himself. It's nothing to get bent out of shape over."

"Just ignore him," Leonardo reached over for the cereal box. Michelangelo glanced at Raphael, then shrugged his shoulders and averted his attention else where. "You know, ingredients in some of those cereals can be hazardous to your health."

"If it was hazardous, they wouldn't be putting it in the cereal, Einstein," Donatello addressed him while he poured himself a bowl.

"No, really, I read about it," he assured them. "Just look at this one for example. . ." Reaching across the table, he snagged the box out of Leonardo's hand, sending stray fruit puffs across the table top. "Nee-ah. . . Nee-oh-sum-o. . . Nee -ah-simo-medi-" he put the box in front of Donatello's face. "What's that word?" "Niacinamide."

"Right, that one," he retracted the box. "That Niacinnamon stuff, for example. Did you _know_. . .that if you give that stuff to a frog, it will explode?" This attracted the attention he seemed to have been seeking.

"What?" Donatello demanded. "Really?" Leonardo was intrigued. "I have never heard anything more absurd in my life!" Donatello seemed merely offended. "Michelangelo, Niacinamide does _not _make frogs, or anything else explode!"

"Yeah-huh! Does too, I _read _about it! You're just shocked it's been in your breakfast this long, and you might explode now too! You're like a ticking time bomb. . ."

"Mikey, you are being ridiculous." Donatello crossed his arms.

"Tick. . .tock. . .tick. . .tock. . ."

"Just where did you read about this?" Leonardo decided to intervene before things escalated. "The Internet." Michelangelo returned brightly. Leonardo sighed. Donatello shook his head. Raphael ignored them completely.

"Mike," Donatello reasoned. "Niacinamide is a water-soluble B-complex vitamin. It's used for diabetes prevention." Perhaps acquiring a large, red stamp which read "clueless" was in order. It would have gone nicely with Michelangelo's forehead at the moment, Raphael decided. Naturally, he would settle for the classic "dunce" cap in the mean time.

"But. . .I _read_ about it. . ." Maybe they should skip the stamp and cap and find some sort of mental restrainment device instead. Otherwise their confused brother might kill another brain cell at his current concentration level (and in Raphael's opinion, they were endangered these days).

"Mikey, buddy, the Internet is not always a reliable information source!" Leonardo counseled. "I mean, if everything on it were true, Raphael over there would be with Elvis conducting the polar express right about now." Unappreciative of being interjected into the conversation with that particular association, Raphael shot a glare.

"Donny gets a bunch of his facts and sciency research stuff off the Internet! What about _that_!" Michelangelo pointed accusingly as though this proved all his points. It didn't appear he would go down without a fighting chance. Admirable in some respects.

"I use reliable, well established sources, and I use more than one before confirming anything," Donatello defended. "Besides, I don't solely use my computer, there's a marvelous thing called _books_, and _published papers_." End of round three, the final blow had been delivered, TKO. Time to call in the nurse. All attentions focused uneasily on the youngest sibling for a moment, waiting to see how he would respond.

"Hm." He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm getting a waffle. Anyone else want one?" When he didn't receive any answers, he waltzed away carelessly. While he carried on, the remaining turtles shared glances, then also shrugged in accordance.

Donatello resumed his business, and retrieved the much debated box of cereal. Beginning to pour, his arm hesitated, and he turned the list of ingredients towards him once more. Michelangelo tip toed over from the toaster quietly from behind as his brother continued to study the list. "BOOM!" The shout was deafening. The fruit puffs sailed threw the air like a meteor shower, landing in various locations and ranges. _Merry Christmas_, Raphael thought.

-----------

Raphael hit the punching bag continuously. Left, right, left, right, kick, kick, left. The strokes all melded together mechanically after a while.

He went on, rotating different exercises as the afternoon slowly crept along. Lunch was forgotten or forsaken. Like a game, straining each muscle, each body part _just _to the brim of enough, the changing focus to a new aria to allow the previous wind-down time.

Sweat covered his body, trickling down his brow, neck, shoulders. It ached. He ached. However, it was not an altogether unwelcome feeling.

Pain was it's own little diva. Prominently taking center stage and stepping on toes to do so. Where woes, worries and joys were often courteous enough to share the limelight all a once, it was a lesson clearly never learned in preschool by pain. A single spotlight was enough for a single act, as far as it was concerned. A preformance he didn't always un-appreciate.

Nevertheless, Raphael did not, and would never condone pain in the form of self inflicted wounds. It seemed as cowardly as it was feeble in his mind. Hiding in some dark little room or corner, imagining some great and noble rescue from a monster as real as the one in your closet as a child.

No, Raphael needed, nor wanted any rescue. He was better than that, stronger. Where others needed a savior, he was more inclined to save himself. And so he continued, in the preferable way to kill two birds with one stone. Free his mind, shoving the skeletons back a little farther into the closet, and forging his own safeguard.

Breathing heavily, he counted leg presses with difficulty. Difficulty mainly between executing the presses and remembering how many were left to endure. Such things became hazy quite regularly when you body is shouting one thing, so in turn your brain decided to shout another back, and between all the noise you have a hard time discerning one thing from another. Feeling it was close enough, Raphael let the weights drop with a heave.

Loudly, he sighed with content. There weren't really many useful descriptions of how you felt after a difficult work out. Accomplished, exhilarated. . .desperately in need of a shower. Upon waiting for the feeling to return to his legs, staring at what lay overhead seemed the only options. Unfortunately, a good portion of what lay overhead consisted of wreaths, tinsel, strung popcorn (which mysteriously seemed to become shorter each time he examined it), paper snow flakes on fishing wire, and a rather large, brightly colored sign that read "Merry Christmas" with the letters "Christ" in red and "mas" in green.

Raphael exhaled noisily and sat up. Perhaps he would find the remainder of feeling for his limbs elsewhere. The kitchen seemed a good place to start.

Through the loudly decorated lair he traveled stiffly. Past the red nosed reindeer figurine whose entire snout lit up, rather than solely the nose. Past Nelton, currently in his non-voice box hours. Finally past the child sized Frost the Snowman, which looked more like a failed attempt at the marshmallow factory than anything constructed by happy schoolyard children. He had the sudden urge to kick it to see if it would bounce and how far it could go. (He refrained from doing so.)

Mercifully, his destination was quite empty. He opened the refrigerator only to discover someone had changed the regular light bulb for a green one. Obsession, he decided shaking his head.

Snatching a carton of eggnog, he drank from the container. The clock read ten 'till five. There was a scrapping sound as he pulled a chair out from under the table and plopped himself into it. Gulping another mouthful of sweet milky liquid (which, he decided has a pleasant after kick reminiscent of chi tea), he slowly stretched his legs. Flexing and un-flexing different muscles as he did so. "Ahhh. . .TGIF," he sighed contently.

Such as in life, anything enjoyable was not to be long-lived. His solitary, for instance, fit that bill. The front doors opened and Michelangelo (who Raphael somehow suspected had been the ring leader of the entire decorating scheme in the first place) made a boisterous entrance. To Raphael's dismay (and undecided horror), he was towing a very large, very real pine tree in his wake.

"_Hellooo_, turtles!" he called merrily, as though he had reason to be proud of the great monstrosity he was toting. Adorned, of course, in the red Santa cap (becoming a regular occurrence these days). The doors closed behind him, almost like an ominous reminder that they were now all trapped in the same home with that great bushy green thing. "Come out and see what daddy brought home from _wooork_. . ."

Compulsively, the luring remark did its job. Donatello emerged from his laboratory in a white lab coat (having seen it's better days since Turtle-Bomb warfare projects had begun and abruptly been put to a stop) with a pair of bug-eyed goggles on. In turn, Leonardo poked his head out from his room curiously to peer down at the commotion. The reaction was unanimous. "Righteous!" "Radical!" Raphael thought he might choke on his eggnog.

While the two excited turtles raced to ogle the new marvel, Michelangelo beamed with delight. "It's huge!" "Enormous!" "Where did it come from?" "Mikey, you didn't chop this down did you?" "This is so awesome!" "Because I'm sure there's a law against that somewhere..." "Lets put it by the Karl and Carol carolers!"

"Calm yourselves, my bro's," Michelangelo instructed raising a hand for peace. "Your little brother has indeed come through again. I know, I know. . .no need to thank me. I understand how lost you would be without me. . ." dramatically he bowed, hat swinging with him. "Of course if you want to show your appreciation, cash, checks and groveling on your knees will now be accepted."

"But Mike, seriously, you didn't cut this out of the park or anything, did you?" Leonardo seemed a tad concerned. "Relax Leo," Michelangelo rolled his eyes. "I didn't even have to raise a butter knife."

"Yeah?" Raphael's interjection came finally. "Well how did ya' get it then? It ain't exactly like yous' can just waltz right up to the shopping center and go 'excuse me, while I'm here for the potpourri, would you mind delivering a tree as well?'" Skepticism seeped from the accusation.

Gingerly his younger brother let the tree drop. As if it were of little concern to the red capped turtle, he replied casually. "Oh, you know. . .art of the Ninja, way of the shadows and all that. . ."

"Mikey. . ." they prodded. "Oh, all right," he conceded."April gave it to me."

Leonardo raised an eyebrow. "No, really!" Michelangelo persuaded. 

"Mikey, it's a gigantic ever green. People don't just keep a spare in their broom closet," Donatello chided folding his arms.

"But she did! Oh, well, give it to me, I mean. I don't' think she has a broom closet. . ." Donatello rolled his eyes. Michelangelo continued. "Remember how I went over to help April out with decorating and everything?" He paused for their nods of affirmation, confirming Raphael's earlier suspicion. "Well, it just so happened that today was also her delivery day."

"Her what?" Raphael asked.

"You know, a delivery is when. . ."

"I ain't an idiot, I know what delivery means," he interrupted his younger brother crustily. "What was the delivery _for_?"

"Oh, yeah. For the tree." he stated simply. "She was using that new Christmas Tree place. The one that pushes their business by delivering to save you time. Anyway," he carried on. "Today they were delivering April's tree."

"Okay, not to say that isn't great for her, but how does it land us with one?" Leo inquired. "Yeah," Donatello interjected. "I'm not seeing the connection."

"Well I was getting to that part! You say Raph's impatient..."

"What?" Raphael spat indignantly.

"Case in point. But anyhow, she ordered a little tree because her apartment ceiling isn't that high. The delivery guys showed up with this," he tapped the tree with his foot. "It was too big to even fit in the entryway. So here we are!"

"But why would they just give away a perfectly good tree?" Leonardo pondered taking another look at the ever green. "It doesn't make sense."

"Um. . .well. . ."

"Mike. . .quit stallin'," Raphael said suspiciously.

"You know how April live three flights up in her building?" Michelangelo asked tentatively. His brothers nodded in unison. "Well. . .they made the first flight of stairs back down okay, but the other two. . ." he began to twiddle his thumbs when the rest of the reply seemed to escape him.

"They _dropped _a full grown pine tree down two flights of public stairs?" Donatello asked in astonishment.

"That would explain why looks crooked," Leonardo said rubbing his chin.

"Don't forget the broken branches," added Raphael.

"Well, they couldn't re-sell it, and they were just going to _throw it away_!" Michelangelo defended passionately. "I mean, look at it! All ready and grown for Christmas. . .thinking it had a perfectly good home with ornaments and lights and presents to stand over. . .then just like that, wham! All it's hopes crushed! I couldn't just leave it like that. . ." he said bending down as if to console it.

"Mike, it's a pine tree." Raphael stated blankly. "It doesn't give a crap about anything but dirt and water. Even then, it can't really give a crap at all."

"Okay, okay, so it's a little bent out of shape," Leonardo intervened. "But we were just saying the other day how classic it would feel to have a real Christmas Tree for once."

"_We_?" Raphael asked in a double take.

"Sure! Maybe Mikey's right," walking around the great needled mass on the floor, Leonardo clasped an arm about Michelangelo's shoulder. "Maybe, all it's really in need of is a makeover and a little TLC." Michelangelo began to beam once more.

"Let's fix 'er up!"

"I'll get the ornaments!" Piped up Donatello before scurrying away to some unknown location that apparently held even more "holiday cheer". "Don't forget the tinsel!" Mikey called after him with a hand cupped around his mouth.

In a state of dismay, Raphael merely eyed his family as though each had sprouted a second head. Leonardo grasped hold of one side of the mountainous ever green while Michelangelo took the other. Apparently it was easier to drop down two flights than to bring upright. Struggling under the weight of the large plant, Leonardo peeked out from behind a branch. "Hey, Raph, would you mind giving us a hand, here?" Heaving a breath, Raphael begrudgingly trudged over to assist.

It was quite heavy after all. Huffing and puffing, they shuffled across the dingy floor in search of a place vacant of yoyos, skate boards, scraps of tinsel, wrapping paper, pizza crusts, decorations and Fruity puffs. Many calls of "left! left!" and "no wait, your other left! _my _left!" filled the lair.

"Okay," Leonardo managed to get out between his fast paced breaths. "What. . ." pause for breath. ". . .now?"

"Well," Michelangelo wheezed in reply. "All we have to do now is put it in the tree stand."

"Sounds great," Raphael grunted. "But where is it?"

Michelangelo opened his mouth as if to reply, then slowly closed it in a silent "O". He lowered his head as if to seek sanctuary in the voluminous green needles. Leonardo and Raphael however, were not put in any way at ease by the sudden, and uncharacteristic quietness their brother was exhibiting. 

"Mikey. . ." they called warningly in unison. "Where. . .is. . .it?" Raphael demanded peering through the branches in which his younger sibling was hiding. Without replying a word, Michelangelo slowly and guiltily turned his head in the direction of the front doors. There sat a little red stand.

Silence momentarily reined. This time when they repeated his name, it held no question, but rather accusation. "Oops?" he shrugged.

Donatello rounded the corner with three worn cardboard boxes in his arms. They looked as though they had repeatedly been patched with masking tape, and permanent marker lined the front side of each. Some of the writing was crossed over to divert attention to a new labeling while others simply had tape placed over old titles and new ones written on top. It appeared as if his line of vision was completely blocked by the pile of boxes reaching over his head.

"Donny!" the three tree bearing brothers cried together. "Huh?" Donatello replied from behind his cargo. "Put the boxes down!" Leonardo desperately requested. "Well, where should I set them? I don't suppose there's a chair around here somewhere. . ."

"Anywhere!"

Reluctantly, the boxes were placed on the floor, allowing full view of the current predicament. "Oh my!" Donatello exclaimed. "Uh, do you need assistance carrying that?"

"No! Just _get the stand_!" Donatello looked about himself. "I don't think I see one," he scratched his head. "There! By the door!" a voice hollered from behind the tree. "Well what is it doing over there?" He waltzed over retrieving the little item of dispute.

Heaving sighs of relief, the pine was finally lowered into it's rightful place. Michelangelo dusted off his hands."There,"he stated cheerfully. "That wasn't so bad." Raphael took a moment to shoot a glare.

They stood silently for a moment. One could almost sense the level of reverence radiating from the littlecluster of admirers. Like an invisible bubble of unpolluted awe had captured them within its ubiety. "It's lopsided." The bubble popped.

Leonardo sighed. "Aw, come on Raph, give it a rest."

"Yeah," chimed Michelangelo. "It is!" Came the repeated protest. "Just look at it!" A finger was pointed accusingly.

"Well, it's had a rough day," Mikey defended. "Let's see you fall down a couple stair flights and still jump over a candle stick."

Raphael scoffed in retaliation. "Ha, I wouldn't'a fallen in the first place. I'm way too good to go tumbling off stairs or buildings. . ."

"It's just a tree, Raph," his brother reminded him sarcastically.

"Okay guys, cut it out," warned Leonardo. "Let's get to work instead of wasting time bickering."

"Work? Doing what?" Raphael questioned skeptically.

"What do you think? It's a _Christmas _Tree. You decorate it!"

"_More _decorations?" groaned Raphael. "How many do ya' need? Yous' already got the whole freakin' _lair _covered! I can't even use the toilet without some creepy little caroler staring at me. Which for the record, I don't want to see on my bedside table when I wake up in the morning, _Mikey_."

"Raph, you can't have a Christmas tree and not decorate it somehow," Donatello stated matteroffactly. "That would be like. . .sacrilege. Besides, it really needs the help."

"I told you guys, don't worry! A little trimming, a little tinsel, you'll ne...ver know the difference," Michelangelo chirped positively, possibly as much to the tree as anyone else.

"Ug, what is it with you people and. . .and _tinsel _and stuff! " The sudden outburst was somewhat unanticipated. "Um. . .it's shiny?" Mikey offered.

Donatello rolled his eyes. "I think someone just woke up on the wrong side of the shell this morning. . ."

"Yeah," added Michelangelo. "And stayed there, too."

Leonardo was browsing through ornaments. "Another thing I'd like to know," Raphael said making his way over the now pine needle covered floor. "Where the heck did these all come from?"

"Oh, well that's an interesting question, you see-"

"Ya' know what, forget it Don, I don't even wanna know."

"Raph," Leonardo sighed wearily. "Why don't you just go see if Splinter is finished meditating or not?"

"Yeah, get him yourself," he replied stomping away. "An' ya' can decorate on your own too."

"Where are you going?"

"On a walk."

The metal doors closed with a "shink" behind him as he made his exit. It was Michelangelo who scowled this time. "Well I don't know if I want _him _on my Christmas list anymore."

"Mikey!" Leonardo scolded. "He's still our brother, even when he's a bone-head."

"Oh. . .fine," reluctantly the youngest conceded. "but if you ask me, he's just being a pain. Sometimes on purpose, I wonder. . ."

"Eh, maybe he's just been staying up too late watching TV or something," Donatello interjected examining an ornament that featured a monkey in a toy soldier suit banging a drum. One of his drum sticks was missing a half. The contemplation hadn't seemed to move anyone. "No, really, the average person needs seven to eight hours of sleep a night. But, the average _teen _needs nine or more. I've been reading a few different articles on sleep patterns and cycles. So he's probably just been up too late watching Christmas specials or something. . ."

"He doesn't watch any, says he's too old or something," argued Michelangelo.

"Okay then, WrestleMania," he put down the monkey and selected a different ornament.

"Well wouldn't that be nice. All the mystery and bedside manner of Raphael solved with an afternoon nap everyday. He'll probably go for that one after he gets a snack time," Leonardo said sarcastically. "Well, I guess I'll go check with Splinter, he'd probably like to help with the tree."

* * *

Happy New Year! Whew. Well, at least it's up. I could rant and rave about the madness going around here lately to explain why this update is later than planned, but, I suppose I won't. For all of you wondering, yes, that's what the boxes with Christmas decorations look like around my house too. The song I used in the begining was Santa Clause is Coming to Town by the Jackson Five (which, really is about that painful to listen to. Go see for yourself.)

I had originally intended this chapter to have more to it, but that would have taken longer and I figured two weeks was a long enough wait. (You wouldn't **believe** how long it takes me to get through spell checking alone, not to mention other little fixes.) So, this chapter is really more of a nice little turtle-time family bit. But not to worry, I can indeed promise action for the next update. (Maaaaybe I bring us up to the prologue, maaaybe I don't...guess you'll just have to keep reading... grins evils) But in the mean time, **review**!! (It's truly sad to say how enthusiastic you become, no matter your age, when you receive a review, so go on. Make my day! Share your input.)

Couple of shout outs,

Silver moon16 - thanks for sticking with me this long! Always makes me smile to read your take on things so far.

ArrtyKidd - you're a life saver! This thing really has improved with your gentle input, and I look forward to your reviews.

Zombie Cordelia - many thanks luv, can't wait to hear if I'm keeping up to your standards.

Oh yes, and for any of you that got a gobzillion messages saying "updated" last time, that was my un-agreeable computer not updating correctly and leaving things out (we've had a heart to heart, and hopefully we understand each other now...). So don't forget to review!


	4. Chapter 3

A chilled wind sailed gently by, kissing his cheek tenderly while playing with the tails of his mask. Tossing his head, he willed the unruly material out of his face and backward to their rightful places at the base of his neck. When they returned with a teasing defiance, flickering in his line of vision, he pulled them back more forcefully with his hand. _Ridiculous, lousy, annoying fabric,_ he thought to himself, and half to the cloth as well. Why did they have to make these things so impractical? Sure, it looked nice in a movie or maybe even a comic book. . .but one wrong blow in real life and there went an eyeball. Michelangelo frequently poked himself there, when they were out and about and he turned his head too sharply to ask a question.

Raphael sighed. His brothers. . . It wasn't that he didn't want to get along with them. Really, he would prefer it. He just. . .didn't particularly know how to do so lastingly. Gazing wistfully out over the vast city, he let his legs dangle over the building ledge he found himself perched atop.

Logically, he knew that he loved his brothers, it only made sense. That was what brothers did, was it not? They trained, ate, laughed, mourned, rejoiced, played around with and fell into and out of trouble together. What wasn't to love?

In the pit of his stomach he knew any one of them would give their lives in an instant for his own, something he would easily return. His brow furrowed. Their lives. . . Shaking himself abruptly, he pointedly decided there were better thoughts to occupy ones mind. Boosting himself off the building edge, he rose. Kicking the snot out of some wheezily low life, for example, seemed an excellent distraction.

Shivering slightly, he tightened his coat against the biting December air which sought to penetrate it. _Chilly night_, he thought. He buried his fists within the thick material of the deep pockets.

Lazily towing his feet along, he strolled across the roof top to the opposite edge. Hoisting himself up with a step, he centered himself, finding balance easily. Teetering for a moment, he peered below, almost curiously as a child might have done.

Quicker then a flash of light, he dove downward, performing a front tuck as he descended. Lightly he landed on a fire escape before leaping off and grasping a flag pole just yards opposite him. Using momentum from the previous jump, he catapulted himself into a spiral twist before coming to ground on an opposing apartment complex ledge.

His mask no longer a bother, it soared behind him majestically as though it were an eagle on the wind. Flapping like it had wings, gliding along with downward shifts. Gracefully bending and arching to its masters decided directions, whispering potential routes softly as it grazed past an ear occasionally. Were such things we often keep with us regularly given a little more consideration, we might find they enjoy the more simple pleasures in the things which we regard habitual or commonplace. Such was the thrill of city roaming for this loyal, yet generally over looked face mask.

Raphael ran with the wind, spirit liberated with each spring from roof top to roof top. He would let his eyes close briefly from time to time during perhaps mid jump between a building and window ledge, feeling the rushing airs cool osculation on his deep emerald skin. It cared nothing for troubles or disquietedness, only the thrill of the moment. The rushing of adrenaline. Something quite relatable, in Raphael's opinion.

Across a glossy ice patch he glided. Over and through snow banks of varying sizes, sending little white snow flurries behind him. Tucking into shadows where light was more dominant and flying freely where it lacked authority.

While this night time romp was as enjoyable as any other, it was action that he sought. Lady Luck's twin sister, for where one could be discovered, the other must linger somewhere nearby. Hopefully, the two were hand in hand for Action's seeker. If split apart, woe to the unfortunate soul who found but one alone.

Raphael wasn't sure if he believed in luck. Luck was to cast hope foolishly into an imagined keepers hands. Leave luck for the gamblers and school children who chose to play rather than complete assignments the day before they're due. No, he would not believe in something so left to chance. As far as he was concerned, one decided their own fortune. Chose to be prepared by their own two hands rather than to scrape by on their neck hairs. He could forge his own luck.

The sizable alloy gargoyle made a distinct "ping" when tapped by the sai on his belt. Sitting astride the snarling beast, he rested his lungs. Noting the vastness of the city came much more easily from this vantage point.

How simple mindedly one could over look the grandeur of something to routinely used. Dumbed down and tamed by trivial everyday comings and goings. Hurried tasks and selfish and unselfish pleasures alike. It almost required a self induced childs time out to be properly appreciated. Out of the flashy lights and appealing distractions, everything which could make anyone feel like the center of the city buzz, an individual really could be quite small. A sobering notion.

Indecisively he remained on his perch. Realizing no actual plan for the evening had been formulated, he was content to sit at this overview of New York. At least for a little while longer. Watching over it as the gargoyles did each night loyally, until some inkling of a thought came to him.

Perhaps it would arrive in the whispering of the breeze in his ear. Similar to what he had read about in books and stories. So he listened.

A door slammed somewhere in the distance. Possibly the out come of harsh words exchanged in one of the little houses. An escape being forged through a rickety back doorway, the second screen clanking behind it. A small cluster of sparrows braving the winter quarrelled noisily over their places on a phone line, while an ally cat yowled greedily up at their fluttering forms.

Dogs barked spontaneously, all different pitches and proximity. Some almost seemed replies to previous bays, and others antagonizing challenges to ones yet to come. Tiny yips signaled the spoiled little hand bag dogs no doubt dressed in some ridiculous fashion by the owners who toted them around. While the deeper, more dignified howls of what promised to be watch dogs and guard dogs sounded at their masters sides or in their yards.

Although voices could be heard certainly, with so many people to roam a single city, it wasn't something from which one could pick up conversations or even a single phrase. Rather an indistinguishable hum of tones and emotions. Reminiscent of a beehive, or a radio switched from FM to AM, making everything far less understandable.

Most likely, the sound recognizable above all others in the aged city of creaking and moaning buildings was the ever continuing drone of traffic. The soft putter of what might be an old, faithful engine having seen it's golden days over and gone. Distinctive acceleration of another more reliable car trying a win a race against a red light, or simply impress a girl. Motorcycles zipped impatiently between cars and across busy roads. Many and varying types of honks filled the street ways. Short motivational ones to proceed through an intersection or a chide for cutting off someone. Longer, more irritable ones from unhappy drivers, often accompanied by remarks or gestures (showing the more renown reputation of New York motorists). Occasionally a siren could be made out over the commotion, or a deep winded blast from a truck drivers horn.

Through everything, Raphael deciphered nothing of, or relating to himself or how he should proceed. Not a whisper, or a suggestion. Certainly nothing which could be found useful.

Dismounting he grounded his feet once more into the slushy white mess found in abundance over the city. Hopes of finding anything terribly interesting this particular night seemed slim. Stuffing his fists again deeply into scruffy pockets, he chewed on his tongue in thought. Thoughts of returning to the lair, and his bedroom.

It was then he heard something different. Something unrelated to the dogs, birds, ally cats or traffic. The one something for which he had been searching. The sound of trouble. More specifically, trouble makers.

Raphael's entire disposition changed instantaneously. Inspired with the promise of the thrill he'd been seeking, shoulders rolled back as though a jelly spine had been replaced with a rod of steel, while the head raised its chin radiantly. The night was a loss no more!

Launching himself forward enthusiastically, he came to an abrupt halt at a neighboring gargoyle to listen. Seconds stretched into an eternity as he strained his ears to the utmost of their capabilities. Two blocks downs and two alleys over.

Making the most of each instant, he sprang into action. While he has no doubt he would catch whatever culprit responsible (for there was always someone to catch), his aim was to prevent any victimizing from occurring before they had the chance to run.

Generally he preferred to travel in the upper levels of the city, but practicality called to him from the pavement below. Gracefully, he let himself fall to the dingy ally back way, feet pattering on the ground carefully, precisely. It wasn't difficult to maintain stealth in New York city as much as one might imagine. Certainly, it had been no picnic in the beginning. . .getting used to the bright lights, loud noises, people and traffic patterns. . . But that had been purely a matter of adjustment. Once used to the variety of distractions and detection possibilities, it was quite simple.

Traffic kept their eyes on the road and their irritabilities, shoppers heaved their bags entertaining only thoughts of a car trunk in which to put them. Business men and women alike talked on cells phones and eyed anyone who came near their brief cases, mothers with children constantly counted and recounted heads to make sure all were accounted and present, and the homeless certainly weren't a problem. People just weren't observant enough to keep an eye outs for crime fighting mutants.

Thugs were the only thing to cause worry. Truthfully, even that was a much smaller worry. Most were too busy boasting about girls they didn't have, using as much profanity in sentences as they're narrow little minds could muster, brawling amongst themselves or practicing the art of Substance Abuse (something many in particular seemed well trained in, if nothing else).

All things considered, they weren't always the most troubling factor in a fight. When he and his brothers were united, which was often the case in combat, it was a concern even farther from their minds. However, Raphael had still come to one conclusion, and that was to never underestimate the power of stupid people in large numbers.

He arrived. Raphael melded with effortlessness into the side of an old chipping brick wall. The noise which had called his attention in the first place escalated just beyond the corner beside him. _Show time_, he thought while rolling his shoulders to loosen up the muscles. Carefully, he peered beyond the wall.

Several street punks were laughing softly amongst themselves. He identified the object which had called his attention a short time earlier, a brick wrapped in an old rag which laid on the ground surrounded by glass is had reduced to shards. Their shoed feet crunched over the glistening pieces as they relieved the store, which the broken glass once belonged to, of its merchandise from the back ally entrance.

Raphael scoffed to himself disgustedly as one of the goons picked up a donation box which read "Salvation Army" and shook the contents. Calling to one of his companions he shook the box again, laughing stupidly. Some people just never gave the world a break, even for the holidays. _So much for peace on earth_, Raphael though. Time to intervene.

"Ay'," Raphael called stepping languidly out from behind the brick corner. His hands he kept in his pockets. A couple of the thieves jumped fearfully, startled by the unanticipated intruder. Decidedly, it was safe to say he had captured their attention.

"Now," he continued watching as the group before him began to close flanks. "I was under the impression this time o'year was supposed to be peace on earth an' all that good stuff... That right there," he gestured to the violated store and the brick. "That don't look too peaceful-like ta' me."

"Oh yeah, super hero?" one of the more brassy ruffians called taking a step forward. "Let's just see how much of a peace keeper yous' feels like once us has had a say," he pointed to himself and his companions with his thumb. _Charming_, Raphael wrinkled his nostrils contemptibly. He wasn't much one for pre-brawl banter. Half grinning smugly, his drew his sai's quickly taking a defensive stance with ease. _Here we go_, he thought as they rushed him.

-----------

"Hey, Donny," Leonardo called looking around for his sibling. Calling for his brother once again, he was met with no reply. Donatello was fixated to the screen of his computer, oblivious to the world and anything in it. His mouth was slightly ajar, and the only sign which indicated he was still a part of the world of the living was the occasional punching of keys on the key board, or clicking of the mouse.

Leonardo strolled up to him, once sure of his location, and tried again. "Donny," this time accompanying the address with a nudge.

"Huh?" Donatello was momentarily snapped back into reality. "What?" he inquired shaking out of the zombie-like state.

"Have you seen my comic books? I can't find Terrific Trio issue 27 anywhere. You know, the one where they face Physician Fate and the Platinum Skater. Actually, I can't seem to find any of my comics for that matter. . ." he scratched his head.

"Um. . ." Donatello pondered for a moment. "I think I saw Mikey with some earlier," he returned to the computer screen.

"Why would Mikey be reading my comics? He isn't into the Terrific Trio." Leonardo stated somewhat perplexed. Donatello shot him a quizzical glance.

"Don't ask _me_ to explain why Mikey does anything he does. You know about as much as I do about his tendencies." He began to type once more.

"Besides," Donny shrugged. "Who said anything about _reading _them. . ."

It was Leonardo's turn to exchange a perplexed expression. "Well. . .okay," he glanced around. "Do you know where he might be in that case?"

"I think. . ." Donatello swivelled around in his chair. "I last saw him over near the Christmas tree."

"Still?" Exasperatedly Leonardo inquired, receiving a nod of confirmation."I thought we finished with decorating it ages ago."

"It's like his first born child or something. . .maybe he's just paranoid Raph's going to tip it over in the night," Donny offered.

"All right," Leonardo sighed. "I'll go look by the tree. . ."

"Just be careful!" Donatello called as his brother trudged away. "I think he's on an eggnog buzz."

-----------

The coat. It was slowing him down. He could pointedly feel it.

Agilely he knocked one of his opponents down for what must have been a third time. _What gives_, he thought questioningly. It was proving more difficult to wear these street flunkies out then he had originally anticipated. Why was it they seemed to have more energy and where could he sign up to try it out?

Ducking, he narrowly avoided a chain which had been intended for his head. Delivering a sharp blow to the gut, Raphael was able to wrench the weapon away from its user and render it useless. Ducking once more, he catapulted a second goon off his shell colliding with the first.

He really didn't want to have to take it off. Inwardly he groaned. It was as if he could already hear Leonardo's scolding in his ear; he wasn't supposed to be seen, way of the shadows (although Raphael was certain it was a little late for that at present), he shouldn't be picking fights by himself. . . The reasoning extended on infinitively.

Leaping into the air, Raphael preformed a split kick, sending two assailants tumbling with hammering force. Roughly landing in a lunge, he stifled a painful grunt. Images of the many leg presses and otherwise grueling workout earlier in the day popped into his mind. _Ah_, he thought. That was why they seemed to have more energy.

A large, heavy set fellow a good head taller than Raphael approached, slinging off his own jacket fearlessly to reveal a sleeveless t-shirt and well developed muscles. Immediately, Raphael identified an image of a dragon tattooed onto his right bicep in purple ink. In a style reminiscent to boxing, fists raised face level, the jock stepped up. On his face, a smug smile was plastered, egged on by the cheering of his companions behind him. He swung left, and Raphael swerved right. He swung right, Raphael ducked left. Left, right, left, right, left, left, right again. Rolling his eyes, Raphael finally grew bored and caught one of the menacing fists in his own. Twisting it sharply, he waited until he heard his opponents shoulder pop. Bingo. The thug cried out painfully and was sent tumbling, bare arms and all, into a substantial pile of snow with a forceful shove.

Raphael sighed, continuing the inward debate on his coat. They were, as it turned out, Purple Dragons. . .so it wasn't as though they were totally unaware to the existence of 6ft. walking, talking, mutant turtles in New York City. Catching someone by the ankle in an attempt to knock him off his feet, he gave it a strong, sure tug and sent the owner plummeting to the ground. With a shrug to himself, Raphael finally came to a decision. _Take it off_, he thought.

-----------

Two dark, beady eyes peered cautiously out from under the white furry trim of a Santa cap. They spied left. They spied right. They returned to center.

Before them, a battle field laid. Extending from their current position under the coffee table to the farthest reaches of the pine tree branches. Along the way were the fallen bodies of ornaments, Christmas characters and action figures. Their tiny forms swept across the great plane in solemn defeat.

Small explosions of little white shavings could be seen sporadically here and there across the littered terrain. It appeared heavier in arias where more of the petite bodies were consolidated. The largest quantity of the shavings, however, was located on and around a miniature fortress constructed entirely from various comic books.

Michelangelo had situated himself beneath the sturdy wooden piece of furniture, behind a hefty laden bombardment of throw pillows. At his side, Karl Caroler's stuffed figure was positioned accordingly. His little plastic mouth shaped in the ever-singing form of "We Three Kings".

"Alright, commander," Michelangelo addressed the doll, still seated on his stomach at his designated lookout point. "This is it! The moment of truth. . . We're on our own, the troops are gone. Gunned down," he glanced at the spree of white shaving covered plastic, fabric and porcelain forms which were littered across the surrounding floor.

"It's just you, and me. . ." Speaking hushedly in a husky tone, he squinted out from between two of the pillows opposite him.

"They may have us out numbered and out gunned, but we can't give in! We _wont_!" The resolution with which he stated this was final. "It may seem like suicide. . .but we're just got to save her!" Gesturing enthusiastically, Michelangelo pointed a stout green finger towards the little paper fortress. The singing shape of Carol Caroler could just be made out, captive within its action packed walls.

"When the General gives us his signal, we'll make a mad dash for the enemy while he's momentarily distracted! We only have to pray it can buy us enough time before his _evil _mind can discover our plan. . . Look! There he is now!"

When Karl failed to comply to the command, Michelangelo shifted the doll into the correct line of vision. Together they carefully scrutinized the unmoving form of the child-sized Frosty the Snowman, little black top hat centered on his head, corncob pipe protruding from one side of his plastic smile. Beside him, a half emptied bag of the white shavings.

"Give the signal, General!" Michelangelo shouted fervently across the room. Seizing a pillow, he hurled it through the air past Nelton Nutcrackers motion sensor. "For Clara!" Nelton boomed.

"_For Clara!!_" Michelangelo repeated with enthusiastic valor.

While issuing his war cry wildly, he snatched up Karl and dove out from under the coffee table, dashing maniacally forward. He ducked, he tumbled. He lunged and he rolled. The duo were unstoppable, making their way together in a zigzag pattern across the laden battle zone. Each step a step closer to the notorious rival and the hostage Carol.

"Don't worry Carol, we're-" Michelangelo cut his words short, skidding to a sudden halt several feet before the puffy snowman. Eyeing it with mock-terror, he gasped dramatically. "He's spotted us! Karl, quickly, _duck and cover_!"

With a flying force, Michelangelo hurtled himself and Karl behind a pile of ornament boxes, abruptly crashing to a landing. "We're under fire! Repeat! We're under fire! Karl, whatever you do, don't. . .get. . .hit!"

Agilely springing out from behind the stack of boxes, Michelangelo spend over behind the Frosty doll. "Now commander Karl," he said in a nasally, mad-scientist impersonation, while puppeting the snowman. "You shall meet your _doom_! You are no match for my radical, snowy-like powers. And once you are no more, I shall have the fair Carol as my queen over the new frozen world, when I reverse global warming!" Michelangelo began to cackle madly in the little voice at the top of his lungs.

Pausing briefly, he reached over to the Carol Caroler's prison. "Help me! Help me!" The doll called in a delicate, feminine voice, provided by the puppeting Michelangelo.

Picking up the bag of white shavings, Michelangelo returned to the batty laughter. Retrieving a handful of the bags contents, it was hurtled forcefully towards the pile of boxes. This continued on for several moments. Finally so carried away with himself, he emptied his lungs of their air supply. A rather pitiful chorus of chokes followed.

Pausing a moment to regain breath control, his chest received a few sound pats. While taking this brief respite from war, he glanced down at his side. "Ooo," he exclaimed delightedly at rediscovering what he still held in his right hand. Gingerly, he popped some of the white shavings in his mouth and chewed, smacking his lips contently afterwards. "Mmm. . . coconut-y."

With renewed enthusiasm, the bag was dropped and he raced back to his place under cover with Karl and resumed his position. "Commander, we're got to do something! We've got to- _ahhhh_!" Grabbing his arm theatrically, Michelangelo shut his eyelids tightly in an expression of anguish. "I'm hit! I've been hit! _Ohhh_. . ." he broke into a moan, slipping back into his shell. "It's so dark, it's so. . . _cold_!" Daintily, he coughed twice. "Commander," he suddenly gasped. "You. . .must. . .defeat him. . .! For your country, for me. . ._for Clara_!"

In one fluent motion, Michelangelo grabbed a hold of Karl, rolled onto his stomach and hurled the doll with as much force as he could muster in the direction of Frosty. The collision was masterful. White shavings erupted into the air like a mushroom cloud as the two trinkets smashed into the bag on their downward spiral. Frosty was no more.

"YES!" Michelangelo screamed rising to his knees, arms raised in triumph.

-----------

Leonardo strolled across the dusty marble floor. It had been some time since it had last been mopped, he mused peering downward. Master Splinter had generally used the sweeping and cleaning of the considerably large job as "reflection time" for when one or more of his sons stepped out of line, slacked in more regular arias of responsibility or fell into an argument with a brother which ended in more than just words. (Raphael and Michelangelo in particular had become quite familiar with task.)

Naturally, seeking a more time-efficient method of enduring such a penalty, Donatello had put his creative mind to work until a solution presented itself. An automated mop rider. Borrowing similar blue prints to that of the classic rideable lawn mower, and through several sleepless nights, the floor scrubbing, waxing creation was born. It had even worked generally well when Donatello had impressively offered to clean the floors on his own. At least, it had for about the first five minutes. After which it consumed half of a rug and scorched several tiles. (No cleaning services had been required since then of Donatello.)

Leonardo shook his head at the memory. He supposed some of their tinkering brother's failed outcomes could have been worse. After all, hadn't Thomas Edison burnt down a family barn in his youthful days of experimenting? Then again. . . Perhaps there were less fearful comparisons to be found.

Just having departed from Donatello's desk, he was set on his mission of locating their youngest brother, and hopefully in turn the ever elusive comic books. Thus far, the short search had proven fruitless. With the new information provided, he hoped to change his luck.

Upon passing by the kitchen, which was quickly noted as empty, he paused to take a brief look.The first object to capture his attention was the barren carton of eggnog on the table top. On its side, the container laid very much drained of liquid. (Although Leonardo was positive it had been full at the days beginning.) Suddenly Donatello's earlier caution seemed much more credible as he pressed onward.

Preparing to round a corner which would lead to his destination, a very loud, very unanticipated shouting caused him to stop with momentary alarm in his tracks. It sounded by all the commotion as if the New York Giants had just won the national championship. Yet somehow football hardly seemed relatable, considering it was currently out of season. The voice, however, was instantly recognizable as the turtle Leonardo had been seeking.

"Good grief," Leonardo rolled his eyes. "What in the world could have gotten into him. . ." While pondering this aloud, he decided it would probably be safe to check on things now rather than later. Slightly quickening his pace, he entered the scene of excitement.

Leonardo stopped suddenly. His mouth hung partly ajar from the question that had been intended to be asked and quite suddenly forgotten. With wide eyes and a newfound state of stupefaction, the setting of destruction was surveyed.

Furniture had been moved and shifted from original stationing to a new chaotic pattern reminiscent to an obstacle course. Complete with dugouts and barricades. It appeared no item had been taken for granted, lamps, boxes and even floor mats having been put to use. Still somehow 'resourceful' was not the first word to come to his mind.

Christmas displays, characters and ornaments seemed to have been paid particular attention to, spread across the space in various clusters and formations. Most however laid in piles or on their backs rather than upright and proper positions. White shavings were also easy to spot among the mess. However concerning the shavings, the challenge was looking for a place they weren't present rather than the opposite.

In the center of all these things, Michelangelo was found.

"Don't worry Carol, I'll have you out of there in no time," Michelangelo said in a baritone voice while puppeting what appeared to be a caroling doll. The toy in question seemed to be having a conversation with one of it's own kind. Michelangelo however had his back turned to his older brother, and was still unaware of the new presence.

"Oh Karl," he quickly changed his deep voice to a dainty, notably higher pitched sigh. "My hero! Come here and _kiss me_ you fool!" Elaboration was taken with smooching sound effects.

"What," Leonardo demanded loudly. "In the name of all that is sacred and holy, are you _doing_?"

Michelangelo froze. Shell still turned to his sibling, he made no sudden movement to respond. Glancing down at the two figures still in his hands, he let them drop hastily. "Um. . ." he stuttered, mind racing for an explanation. ". . . .nothing?" he offered hopefully.

-----------

_Why do they always run up? _Raphael contemplated this thought as he quickly climbed a fire escape. _Ya' think they'd lean somethin' from all those action movies, but nooo. . ._

Undoubtedly the punk he currently found himself in pursuit of was the fastest of the night. Maybe the fastest out of a few months or so, for that matter. . . Long legs and a light, lean frame made the kid built to be a natural sprinter. Of course, it was doubtful many sprinters had ever tried out racing a ninja.

Rounding up this last trifling hoodlum should be a simple task. There after, Raphael could reunite he and his companions at the site of their little late night shopping spree. Anonymously alerting the authorities when and where the possy could be picked up afterwards would be no difficulty which could be foreseen.

Naturally, this was all assuming he could catch the little run away sometime before the new year began. He heaved a breath. Holy smokes, this kid was fast. . .

_Ya' can run kiddie, _Raphael thought nearing the end of his climb._ But not much farther. _Sturdily hoisting himself up the last three stairs, he landed on the crisp cement flooring, instantly recognizable as that of the roof. Dark, stoney stillness met him.

Cautiously, his eyes made a scan of the new surroundings from left to right. Once more, slightly slower this time. A hushed placidness was settled over the layout, nothing moved, nothing breathed. Like a game of cat and mouse, each side daring the other to go first.

It was a good sized building top. Depth fairly well matched to width. Spacious. Not what anyone would argue as a childrens playground by any means, but cluttered enough to seek sanctuary within its shadows.

_You might could even try hidin' bud, _Raphael gazed downward. Spreading slowly, a smile stretched across his face. Footprints in the snow. _But not very well. . ._

It was about 30 seconds into tactfully searching for the punk when Raphael felt the first wave of uneasiness. Something didn't feel right. Upon discovering the footprints came to an abrupt and unexplainable end behind a back up power generator with no foreseeable escape route in near by, the feeling intensified. Something was undeniably wrong.

Rapidly drawing his sai's, Raphael spun around sharply on his heel. As he did, he was met with the sight of five figures clothed in head-to-toe black, red head bands instantly classifiable. At the head of this unexpected little welcome party, a smaller framed body stood, pulling on his mask. Long legs and a lean frame. Raphael cursed his own slowness, mentally if not physically.

So the Foot weren't half as dumb as they led their foes to believe. Inwardly, he sighed. It was going to be a longer night than he had originally anticipated.

-----------

Donatello typed away bussily on his well used and battered keyboard. Perhaps aquiring a new one in the near future would be a wise endevor, he mused silently to himself. The one currently in use had seen its better days from potato chip oil, pizza greese, coffee breaks and the ever infamous "super delux nacho surprise" platter. Beside the point, a couple of the more popular vowels had worn away to nothing more than blank keys.

"Hmm. . ." Rubbing his chin, Donatello narrowed his eyes at the screen. "That's interesting," he mused aloud. "Better double check another source. . ."

With a typing speed to rival Evil Knievel, his fingers flew masterfully across the key board. (Raphael had sometimes commented on the impressive, yet in his opinion slightly disturbing ability his brother had to be able to produce a page or so of words before even encountering the need to blink.) As this random thought drifted through Donatello's mind, he distinctively decided to blink. Twice.

Popping up brightly before his eyes, the new desired page of information presented itself. "Wow," he voiced to himself and his computer, mildly surprised. "Well how do you like that. . ."

Casually casting a glance at a near by thermostat, he shrugged. "It sure doesn't feel that cold in here," he commented, speaking to no one in particular once again. This habit of talking to himself had been developed long ago, and he hardly recognized it anymore. Most people might share their thoughts with other, or at least if that failed keep them to themselves. But Donatello had discovered early on that it wasn't very likely his brothers would understand most of his thoughts and pondering to begin with, so who better to voice them with than himself?

While still wrapped up in his discoveries, he became aware of the noisy arrival his two brothers from another room. As he was naturally accustomed to, he tuned them out quite simply. Choosing not to focus on whatever dispute was currently in progress and rather his previous business.

Occasionally he would catch a word or two as it slipped past his mental filter. Here and there he heard something about "disaster aria" "special edition comics" and "coconut oil stains". The safest course of action seemed to steer clear of the affair all together.

Despite his efforts, he distinctly became aware of someone inquiring his opinion. "Hmm. . .?" The response was somewhat detached from the conversation. The question was repeated. "Oh yes. . .that sounds fine," he offered generally, hoping it fit the desired response.

"What?" Leonardo sounded shocked. Pulling himself away from his computer, Donatello turned to face his brothers. Both of which were staring at him quizzically. "What?" he shrugged.

"I just told you Mikey's been using your test tubes as eggnog shot glasses and you magnifying glass as a shaved coconut catapult," Leonardo repeated, still eyeing his brother.

"You did what?!" The demand was indignant. "That is sensitive lab equipment! Do you even have any idea what kinds of things I put in those test tubes?"

"Nope. But it tastes kind of minty," Michelangelo replied simply. Donatello pinched the space between his eyes and groaned.

In an attempt to divert attention from himself, Michelangelo looked for a distraction. "So... hey! What are you up to over here Donny? It took a herd of wild horses to get you away from whatever it was. Must be _preeetty _interesting."

"Huh? Oh, I'm just looking at some weather forecasts."

"Really," Michelangelo scratched his chin, with the appearance of sudden interest. "So, what have you. . .uh. . ._concluded _so far?"

Leonardo shot him a knowing glance.

"Well," Donatello swiveled back to his computer. "All reports seem to be unionizing in agreement about predicted temperatures tonight."

"What are they agreeing about, that it's cold?" Michelangelo asked sarcastically. His brothers ignored him.

"Is the temperature going to drop more or something?" Leo inquired taking a step towards to monitor screen.

"Well, simply put, yes," Donny conceded. "But on a little bit deeper level, it's going to drop 20 or more degrees, and that isn't even counting wind chill levels. . ."

"Are you serious?"

"Yep. This is going to be the all time low we've had so far this winter."

Michelangelo let out a low whistle. "Man," he commented. "I know I'd sure hate to be stuck out there in _that_."

-----------

Sweat trickled down his brow, creeping along his neck as well, sticking the folds of his mask against them. His weapons felt hot in his iron grip, fingers cramped from holding to tightly and long. How long had this been continuing on? It felt like an eternity. Yet he was well aware that a mere 30 minutes might seem like hours to an adrenalin pumped mind.

Too many. Many more than originally anticipated. Like stumbling on a little cockroach lair. He hated cockroaches. Never quite recovered from when one of his brothers had slipped one into his training pads as a kid. (Then again, neither had his brother.)

Part of him was completely disgusted in himself that he could walk into an ambush so easily. It wasn't like his usual instincts to let these things kinds of things slip up. The other part of him was thrilled at the aspect of a good row after what seemed like ages of tinkering little skirmishes. Action seemed few and far between lately.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he felt he ought to probably be a little concerned for the outcome of his current circumstances. But from past encounters and frequent triumphs, it was only a mummer of a though. He felt insured that skill and history would prove faithful (even if it also proved in need of an ice pack later).

Where were they all coming from? Was there some sort of secret Ninja van hidden around the corner they could keep popping out of whenever supply was in demand of which he was unaware? A sliding pole they all kept slipping down? A trap door? Hitting the floor, he landed in a push-up position narrowly avoiding several metal stars hurled at his plastron. Swiftly swinging his legs around he knocked one of the masked figures off their feet and delivered an elbow blow to their chest, hammering out all air from the lungs.

Time crept by. Seemingly slower than life. Yet while it seemed monotonous, it was beginning to show rewarding. A well placed kick here, head butt there, swift elbow elsewhere. He felt certain many would require more than an ice pack the following morning. Almost like squishing bugs.

One down here, two taken care of over there, some retreating with their wounds. As things began to thin out, he almost felt pity for the ones who idealistically believed determination would win against trained skill. Almost. He grinned malevolently as things turned in his favor.

The preverbal finish line in sight, he delivered another innate stroke of his weapon and a laundry line fell, dropping one of its charges (a rather large checkered night gown rimmed with ugly lace) directly onto the head of an opponent. A prompt kick finished the task.

Gazing around, he stood alone. He shrugged. Not such a tough job to finish after all.

Casually casting a glance into a sheet of ice on the cement floor of the roof top he found himself on, he tensed. Behind him and just above. Seeing himself discovered, stealth was cast aside and the figure lunged from his place of concealment. With mere moments to avoid his newly found opponent, he fell backwards, bending at the knees and launched himself into a double back handspring.

The timing worked like clockwork. His feet collided with the figures jaw in the first back handspring. Quite ungracefully, the lunging man was hurtled backward from the blow. With a loud crash, the figure laid prostrate on the ground.

Landing with tactful thump from the second back handspring on an arch, he put away his sai. A glimmer of a smile began to play across his face as he prepared to admire his single handed work. It was then the crack sounded.

A sharp, piercing crack. One which rang loudly through the night and his ears. Gravity shifted rapidly, forcing his heart to leap from its rightful place in the chest to the throat. The ledge, the frozen stone ledge coated in layers of ice snapped under his weight.

He felt wind rush past his head at a whistling speed. Arms flailed out, frantically seeking anything which might be clung to. He felt his shell slam onto (and off of) a metal railing and his hand flew to grasp it. His fingers locked around it for a fraction of an instant as his body weight then wrenched them off again. He collided with several more objects attached to the building before crashing onto a dumpster with resounding force.

A stifled moan escaped his lips before he tipped off the side onto the pavement in an ally. His being ached. Blood pounded through his veins at an alarming rate. He halfheartedly lifted his head part way and thunder roared through his skull. Dropping it down again, he heard himself whimper.

The ground was like ice. Chilling wind rushed over him, but he hadn't the control or coordination to shield himself from it. Darkness ensued. . .

* * *

Finally! Ah, it took a while, but here we are. I had planned to update muuuch sooner, but this crazy thing called "reality" totally got in the way (it's always such a bother, isn't it?). We shall not even discuss the writers block which tried to have its say on matters for a while there, but we might discuss the four colds, all with attitudes and sledge hammers, which had their way with me for a week or so (bleh, I hate being sick). But yes, I have come out on top of both the block and the colds, and here we stand. 

I figured chapter length would make up a bit for the wait you've so patiently endured (or hey, maybe not so patiently for some, that's cool too). What do we need to remember now? Happy writers produce better chapters! What makes an author happy? Reviews! Wouldn't you like to help make this author happy...? Review!


	5. Chapter 4

The familiar glass door swung shut behind him with an unforgiving "swoosh". Dejectedly taking a few stoney steps forward, he paused to take an awkward glance back. As if in response, the light of the neon blue "open" sign clicked off and the door was locked with a snap. Adding insult to injury, he watched as a cardboard sign with red marker letters was taped up in the window. It read "help wanted".

Outside the store, a biting wind rushed swiftly past, unexpectedly blowing his coat open. Hastily he sought to close it, pulled the zipper high up to his goatee. The old worn fabric provided little comfort.

Teeth chattering, fists buried themselves within the thin pockets. With a heavy sigh, he turned away and began down the sidewalk with slow, shuffling steps. Beneath his aged sneakers, the ever accumulating supply of snow parted and compacted into an icy path, numbing his toes.

Each sidewalk was followed to a tee. Turning only when the precise corner had been reached, staying within the center line. Cracks and other imperfections in the concrete were carefully avoided, so as not to make any mistake by stepping on them. Alley back ways and substitute shorts cuts were abstain from using. A stop was even made to check on the persistent meowing of a stray cat, making positive that it wasn't caught beneath a trash can.

He was doddling. Purposefully piddling away the time, taking alternate and longer routes as he trudged along his way. None of which made real sense or progress. But that was fine for now. . . Returning was not on his list of top desires currently.

How could he return? He couldn't. . .not now. Yet he had too at the same time.

Spitefully, he kicked a little bulkily built snowman. No doubt the construction of some school-child earlier in the day after home work and chores had been completed. It was nothing more than a little lumpy pile of snow now. He smiled bitterly at the thought of someone else being miserable along with him. It was selfish, he knew. Probably more than petty for someone his age also. But at the same time it was a small outlet for current stress.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he paused to rest his back against the corner of a brick wall. Despite his restlessness, he sighed. He needed a smoke. No, no he couldn't. . . He had promised. Promised to quit that habit. Then again. . .he had promised a lot of things.

Being a caretaker for one example. A roof overhead, bills to be paid, meals to be provided. Life didn't give handouts or vacation time.

Against his deeper will, he pushed off the building and continued gloomily onward. The weather was proving as unforgiving as the night had been. Hadn't he heard something about the cold spell thickening tonight from one of the customers at work?

Work. A single, bitterly ironic laugh escaped his throat. One more of the compiling reasons he continued to waste time. One more thing he couldn't bring himself to explain.

At the same time. . .he knew an explanation would have to be produced eventually. If not to one listener, then to another. He shuddered. How many more excuses would be accepted? Creativity was running dry along with resourcefulness. Things were getting beyond scraping the bottom barrel of luck.

Options were running low. In fact, as far as he could see, they had run out. If any loop holes remained, they were far too tiny to be found.

It wouldn't be long now. . . Not long at all. The phone company had cut the power last month and the electric and power companies were already promising hell. Social services weren't exactly slow to the draw. They would be on his back in no time for sure. . .

Biting his lip, hastily a hand was run through his unruly hair. Frustration seized hold suddenly and he felt his numb fingers tighten around the dark locks, pulling them sharply. Looking to his left he spied a rusty metal dumpster. Feeling the anger building within his chest, he turned abruptly and unleashed his wrath uttering a primal yell of rage. He kicked it. Again and again he rammed his foot into the side of the old dumpster until the limb screamed in painful protests of the dent it was leaving.

At last, with an ushered cry of despair, he stopped. The deep green metal was cool to the touch as he rested his head against it, allowing his eyes to drift shut. So this how devastation felt.

". . . .what am I gonna do. . .?" The whisper was directed at no one in particular. Mainly because there was no one but himself to direct it towards. What could he do? There was nothing. . . No escape or hope for salvation. As far as circumstances lead him to believe, there wasn't so much as a single door to which he could turn. . .

His eyes snapped open. As if by the gentle tapping on his shoulder by an angel, a lightbulb clicked on in his mind. Although most any might agree no angel of heaven could have bestowed such a light.

Carefully he pulled away from his resting point on the dumpster. Mind racing on a new set of tracks, he absentmindedly cracked his knuckles which popped noisily in a fidgety habit. Perhaps where he had abandoned all hope, not every option had been explored yet. Perhaps. . .he had one more door after all.

Looking in the opposite direction from which his previous destination laid, he bit his lip thoughtfully. Slowly he angled his body in the new route. About to place a shaky step forward, hesitation suddenly blocked the way.

No, no, no! What was he thinking? He couldn't, he shouldn't. He mustn't.

Shutting his eyes tightly he placed shaking fingers on his temples before running them through his hair once again. Was he mad? Was he completely, out of his mind, stark raving mad? How could he ever consider such a thought seriously? And still. . .

The pacing begun. One of his less favorable habits, developed in his earlier years of Attention Deficit Disorder. (Something which he had thankfully outgrown to most degrees.) He had been told on more than one occasion that such kind of thought invoked pacing could wear a path in carpet at the rate he could go sometimes.

An inward battle raged within the young man. On one hand, honor, integrity. On the other hand, compiling bills, debts and social services. . .

He exhaled heartlessly. Raising his eyes drearily, he cast a chance gaze across the street and beheld a toy store's display window. A collage of various play things and childrens amusements were prominently displayed to catch the shoppers attention. Towards the center of the array sat a little wooden box which was decorated in elaborately painted flowers. Within its miniature window framed doors and pull out drawers gaudy necklaces and kiddie jewelry could be seen. Despite the distance in yards, he instantly recognized it for what it was, a little girls jewelry box. No doubt modeled with a wind up key designed to trigger a tune box into playing some sweet childs song.

Shoulders slumping solemnly in defeat, his head hung itself once more.

This time when the exhalation came, it was devoid of hopelessness or despair. It cast aside shame and self loathing present only moments earlier. It was determined.

Defiantly raising his chin, he glared across the snowy street once more into the window. The little wooden piece still sat there, indifferent from the rest of it's shoddy neighbors. Rolling back his shoulders resolutely, he cast it one final glance before turning away.

"Okay," he heard himself softly whisper to himself. His breath came out in little whites puffs in the winter air.

Placing one foot in front of the other, he strode against the biting wind in a new direction. Cutting corners, leaping fences and taking alley shortcuts he carefully made his way through the city. Where his destination laid, he knew by heart. For the most part, that was how he knew the city in general. By heart.

As if judgement day itself were on his tail, he was heedful to waste not a moment. Unsure of how much of a time frame fate would allow (if it carried one tonight at all) he rushed along the way, frozen toes pounding below him all the way.

Breath. It was something he desperately needed to catch. Not to presume his physical fitness was lacking, but rather the icy air was stinging his lungs with every intake.

Making a fist, he placed his hand to his mouth as he stopped to rest against a building corner. Forcefully, he took slower more deliberate breaths trying to warm the air through his thinly gloved hand before it entered his body.

He looked up from his work. A tall, tarnished building stood ominously before him. In front, the windows and doors were boarded up and the concrete stairs leading to the entrance were crumbled with decay. Spray paint lined the walls in various crude images and words. 'Abandoned' was the first word to spring to an observers mind.

None the less, this was his destination. All too well he knew what laid within the walls carefully decorated to look vacant or worthless. Reminiscent of the Sea Witch's lair, luring unsuspecting mermaids and mermen into its deadly clutches.

Forgetting the chilled air, he eyed the building warily, mouth slightly agape, puffing the little white clouds. "It's only for a little while," he said trying to quietly reassure himself as he pushed off the wall. Get some money, pay the bills, then find a stable job. The plan seemed simple enough.

Ignoring the front entrance, he slipped through a few loose boards in the tall wooden fence which ran along the property. Crumpled cans, cigarette buds and broken pieces of beer bottles were spread across the trampled ground.Taking care, he stepped around an empty spray paint can and a few discarded lighters.

The outside premises was still empty as he approached a large metal door at the buildings end. Extending an arm to knock, he hesitated. There was still time. Time in which he could turn back, leave right now and return home. Then he could. . . He could what? There would be nothing left to return home to if he didn't do something (preferably soon).

Determination refueled, he steadied his arm and knocked three clear times. There was no turning back. His decision was made.

Behind the entrance, movement awakened. A stirring of large, heavy foot steps. Suddenly a peep window opened in the great door which enabled a pair of hard eyes to peep out into the shadows.

"Who's there, and wha'dya want?" The deep, harsh voice matched the eyes. Cold and indifferent.

"It's eh. . .me," he replied stepping into the little beam of light. Able now to better scrutinize the figure before them, the observing eyes brightened in recognition. With a "shink" the little window closed.

Waiting awkwardly in the snow, he shuffled nervously. Abruptly the distinct noise of a large number of locks unclicking and bolts being drawn back sounded from behind the door. His gaze snapped back to attention.

Ice crackled as the door was wrenched open. A blast of light temporarily blinded him, forcing him to shield his eyes. At the same time, an ominous body stepped forward before him. Eyes still somewhat unadjusted, he endured the sensitivity to look up and take in the new presence.

Standing easily at a height of 6 feet 6 inches, a muscle bulking man with deep shaded African skin was planted firmly in the doorway. He must have weighed, at the least, two hundred and seventy pounds (if not more), no doubt lacking an ounce of body fat. The hair on his nicely rounded head was buzzed razor thin with various elaborate designs shaved into it expozing his dark scalp. Multiple peircings lined his left ear with expensive looking studs and rings. Fitted tightly across his barrel chest a black tshirt revealed (if it were even possible) more muscle definition. Lastly, a variety of time consuming, complex tattoos enveloped his upper arms and what was visible of his neck. In essence, the fabric of every little old womans nightmares.

There was a momentary silence as each of the two looked the other over. The giant of a man leaned slightly forward menecingly, narrowing his eyes. It were as though he were trying to burn a hole in his opponents forehead with his stoney gaze. (Making the light brown shade of his eyes easily notable.)

"Keenan!" The giants baritone voice boomed through the night. A deep chested laughter followed which echoed in the silence. Reaching forward, he picked up the smaller figure with his enormous arms into a rib crushing bear hub.

"It's great to see you again too, Lucious," he wheezed out with what little breath he had left in his lungs. Once dropped to his feet again, it was pointedly decided that the air (frozen though it may be) had never been so appreciated.

"Well, isn't this a surprise," Lucious voiced into the night. "I couldn't begin to guess the last time I saw your face out and about."

"Yeah, I've just been. . .busy," he responded rubbing his now sore ribs.

"That be so? Well, you'd better git' in here before that December wind blows you over," his friend said ushering him inside. The door was closed and relock as the wind continued to howl.

"Hey, Taylorson, git' over here boy and man this door," the demand was made with authority. It summoned a gangly teen from a nearby room who couldn't have been more than 16 instantly. Clumsily the youth came to attention at his newly assigned post, nervousness to please easily detectable on his face. Lucious paid him little heed.

"You still playing happy-little-home-keeper?" The large black man questioned, turning his back to the boy.

"Heh, something like that. . .but look at you," he responded diverting subject from himself. "Good gods, you're enormous. . .I don't know what in heaven or hell they've been feeding you, but you are _too _freakin' _big_! What do they got yous' on, steroids through a feedin' tube?"

Lucious laughed heartily. "Now you know ain't no steroids gonna give you _this_," curling both arms inward, he flexed outrageous biceps and pectorals.

"Oh, for the love of ya' mother, would you knock that off," he rolled his eyes at the showy display. "An' go put some more clothes on, you're gonna poke someone's eye out."

"I'll have you know I happen to love my momma very much," Lucious defended in good nature. The flexing ceased.

"So is she the one I need to talk to about your feeding?"

"I don't know, why? So ya' can git some real meat on those scrawny little white-boy limbs o'yours?"

"Ha. Ha.You just _too _funny," he retorted sarcastically.

Lucious folded his arms. "So what _are _you doin' 'round here? Shouldn't you be out runnin' errands for some steady little job and helping old ladies across the street?"

"Well, maybe that's why I came," he stuffed his fingers into his pockets once more. Lucious merely grinned like a Cheshire cat in reply.

"Ya' don't mean to tell me you finally come to yoh' senses and re-thought my offer, do ya'?" The word "offer" was hardly substantial to represent the numerous times Lucous had badgered him. It had been one of the final reasons he had been "busy" so long.

Taking in his companions conceding shrug, Lucious let out a hardy "HA" and clamped a hand firmly on his shoulder. Perhaps that was one of the reasons people were drawn to the big man, he had a capturing sense of humor which proved virtually unable of being doused.

"Keen, mah' man," they began to stroll down a long corridor. "I have been waitin' for the day you'd finally come 'round. Now don't you go worryin', yoh' man Lucious has got'cha back. I got _connections_, you know what I'm sayin'. . .?"

Rounding a corner in the building (which was surprisingly nicer on the inside than the outside) they came to a halt before another door. "Now," Lucious began, releasing his shoulder grip. "Lucky for you, the boss just happens to be in right now. That don't happen too often these days. An' we got a real sweet job runnin' over the weekend. Green horns don't usually make these kind'a cuts, but I can pull some'o those strings I been tellin' ya' 'bout." Placing an enveloping hand over the door knob, Lucious looked at his friend once more for a final statement. "Just play it cool, bro, I'll take care of the talkin'."

With a churning feeling in his stomach, they entered the room. "'Ay, boss," Lucious called assertively. Several men were standing around a table laden with papers, cigarette packets and half emptied cups of coffee. The largest was a towering blonde man with a buzz cut and sleeveless shirt. (He could easily have rivaled Lucious in proportions.) On one of his well muscularly defined arms, a dragon was tattooed clearly in purple ink. Undoubtedly, this was the man Lucious had been addressing.

"This here is my man Keenan," Lucious completed the introduction with a firm pat on the back. "I think ya' gonna like him, he's real smart."

"Keenan," the blonde man repeated. Stepping ominously forward, he introduced himself. "You may call me, Master Hun."

* * *

Mwhahahaha. . . And _just _when you thought you'd get all the answers from the last chapter. But my lovelies, as much as it pains me to temporarily disappoint you, this is necessary for plot purposes. I know, I know. . .I may have a mutiny on my hands for a double cliffy, but I have every confidence that you will be able to persevere until the next update. So until that time, you have no idea how much I would love your reviews (even if you've never reviewed before or have a dozen times already). 

A few shout outs:

WaichiMakkura - you are a wonderful reader and are able to balance equal doses of encouragement as well as helpful tips. Always a pleasure to hear from you.

Tear Hunter - as always, your insight tickles me pink (good luck keeping Raph in line over there). Luv your bright reviews.

Libra4eva - I hear ya' pal, lol, just gotta hang in there by your front teeth sometimes. You can entertain me with your personal rambling anytime.

Remember, click, type, review!


	6. Chapter 5

Michelangelo's eye twitched. Sitting cross legged before the plethora of television screens which made up their entertainment system, he was the very model of unadulterated concentration. The only sign to indicate the seemingly inanimate figure was still a part of living, breathing society was the expeditious movement of his fingers. Flying rapidly with a speed seldom known to man, they seemed to blur together over the video game controller, currently in a six fingered vice grip.

His tongue sat just outside the corner of him mouth, almost in scrutiny of his current situation. Crookedly set atop his furrowed brow, the red Santa cap's little white ball bounced and bobbled with the occasional excited lurch towards the screens when some triumph or another seemed close at hand. Anticipation peaked, the time had nearly come. . .

She was skillful, oh yes. . .but he was better. _He_ was the all time running computer, handheld, arcade and over all game system turtle champion (unbeatable by mutant and human alike). _He_ had defeated the first _and_ second halo within one week! _**He-**_

"Wha-? Wait! Aw, naw, naw, naw- _noooo_. . .!"

. . . .had just been TKO'ed by Princess Peach in the final seconds of Super Mario Smash Brothers. Again. . .

With a crestfallen groan, he slunked downward pressing his banded forehead against the cool stone floor. As the dainty little figure dressed entirely in pink winked and waved triumphantly on the screen, he let the control slip from his hands and banged his head against the ground. 

"So close," he sighed. 

Strolling past the scene on his way from the kitchen, Donatello grasped a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. Not wishing to take such a delectable thing for granted, he lifted the mug to his nostrils and inhaled a deep wiff of the wafting aroma, exhaling contently afterwards. 

"Um. . ." He paused momentarily, glancing up to survey his younger brothers disposition. "You okay over there, Mike?"

Banging his head once more, Michelangelo mumbled the word "fine" from the corner of his mouth, then proceeded tobang his forehead again. In times of desperation such as these, the orange banded mutant preferred to mourn alone. (Which was generally never a lasting delima due to the fact the mourning didn't tend to last very long.)

"Ooookay. . . What exactly seems to be the ailment?" Donatello forced himself to temporarily take his mind off the liquid treasure, deciding the issue of his brothers mental well-being trumped the situation for the time being. 

"Shmee meeps fmeetin ee."

"I'm. . .sorry? Didn't quite catch that."

Michelangelo lifted his head several inches from its resting place. "I _said_, she keeps beating me."

"Who?"

In reply, the despairing turtle pointed a single, accusing finger at the figure parading on the tv screens. 

"Uh-huh. . .and just how long have you been at this, if you don't mind my asking?" Donatello inquired.

"Two rounds."

"All this hassle for two simple matches?"

"Two ninety minute matches."

Sputtering on his fresh sip of coffee, Donatello gaped. "Ninety minutes? Per round? What kind of anti-social, couch-potato came up with something like that?"

Lazily rolling up to a sitting position, Michelangelo flexed and stretched his arms muscles. A shoulder, elbow and three fingers popped as a contented sigh was exhaled noisily. Upon returning his brothers gaze, he merely shrugged.

"It's the only way to unlock the next characters available."

Straitening the notorious cap on top of his head, Mikey reached for the controller once more. 

"Surely you jest!" Donatello chided taking in his siblings apparent intentions with disbelief. 

"What am I being accused of?" Michelangelo asked cocking his head to one side. 

Donatello rolled his eyes. "You cannot be serious! You just wasted three hours of your life consecutively, and now you're going to do it again?"

While pressing the button to restart the game, Michelangelo waggled a finger at his brother. "Not 'wasting', _learning_! Wise man say: 'every defeat suffered is a strategy learned'. Either that or, try, try, again. I get the two mixed up."

"You're impossible, you know that?" Donatello scowled with disapproval. "One of these days we're going to have to surgically detach you from that controller." Heedlessly his brother ignored the prediction, content to focus his attention solely on the tv's once more.

"Hey guys," Leonardo entered the conversation as he ambled into the room (which had been re-arranged to its previous state proceeding the coconut warfare). "Has Raph gotten back yet?"

Donatello scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it, I don't recall his return to the lair either."

"Aw, dudes," Mikey interjected carelessly waving a hand. "It's like, a regular pass time lately. Besides, it's not like it's been that long since his little spout-off."

Donatello narrowed his eyes sarcastically. "Well for those of us set apart from zombie-land, the universe has continued its gravitational rotation. Leo's correct, it has been hours."

"Well. . .then he's probably kickin' it with Casey." The rebuttal came without a break in concentration from the televisions. Mario hurtled a pokemon ball at Princess Peach on the screen, which she evaded easily with the aid of her umbrella. 

"That would be difficult," Leonardo challenged. "Considering Casey and April are visiting her relatives in New Hampshire."

"Oh. Well then. . ." Michelangelo's brow furrowed in thought. Mario leapt over a crate landing impressively behind his opponent. The sounds of buttons clicking and clattering intensified in excitement. That was until she turned promptly around and blasted him off the platform with a flame throwing flower. "Eeeyeah. . .that's all I got," he conceded in defeat.

Donatello placed on encouraging hand on his older brothers shoulder. "Don't worry Leo," he said reassuringly. "I'm sure Raphael is just blowing off a little extra steam tonight."

Michelangelo snorted. "The guy's practically a walking tea kettle," he commented dryly from his place on the floor, eyes still fixed on their conquest.

Without seeming to take much note of the interjection, Donatello ignored him. "We all know Raph is just as much, if not more than capableof taking care of himself as any of us. Besides," he added seemingly with an after-thought. "The more he wears himself out, the less attitude we have to deal with tomorrow."

While pursing his mouth in silent reasoning, Leonardo finally exhaled in submission. "I suppose you might be right," he admitted. "I guess I just didn't' expect him to be enough of a hot-head to brave this much cold weather."

* * *

Oh my. Whew, no time to re-account the unexplainably loooong gap between this and the previous chapter (mainly because I'm just not that great an excuse maker). Yes, it's not terribly long. But I figured you people needed some sign that nothing was going to be dropped. Sufficed to say I am trying to work like a mad woman on the next update, so hang tight (we have to push through reality AND writers block somehow in this crazy world). I know precisely where everything is going, it's just the little words in between that can be a bother sometimes. :)

(Oh yeah, and as surprising as it may be to some of you, I don't own Super Mario Smash Brothers or anything akin. Shocking, darling, I know...)

Shout outs to:

Libra4ever still never get tired of hearing from you, darling. May the rambling never end!

Tera Hunter I've found when all else fails in keeping order, duck tape never lets you down. winkwink

But besides the point: questions, comments, cries of outrage? (Yes, no, maybe so? Review anyway!) I'm doing my best to make my social life suffer for you readers, so show a little love in the mean time.


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